Populism: Gendered and Dangerous

This was a fantastic article by Julie Mostov.

The article points out that populism follows a gendered undertow and always jeopardizes democracy. The undercurrent of populism movements is the strengthen the "us" vs. "them" narrative. Populism is all for the continued rule of majority and the would-be infiltrators of the status quo are not desirable players. This POV also affects immigration policies and curbs democratic institutions with the intention of serving the national interest. This will most likely progress in parallel with the disenfranchisement of entities deemed as disloyal and the silencing of the suspect voices within the demos. 

Link to the Article

Homeless Billionaire

As I walk into the lavish dining room of the Carlyle Hotel in New York, I notice a figure who looks vaguely like an elf. He is hunched on a very low red stool, partly behind a door, so close to the floor that his frame seems diminutive, with a slightly pointed face and watchful, intense manner. Is that Nicolas Berggruen, I wonder?
If I am unsure of what to expect, it is no surprise. Berggruen, 47, has spent most of his life in the shadows. The Paris-born investor is reportedly one of the world’s wealthiest, having conjured a $2.2bn-plus fortune buying real estate and stakes in companies such as Karstadt, the German retailing group, and Prisa, the Spanish media conglomerate that publishes El País and owns Le Monde. Normally, this kind of success comes with lavish houses, cars and paintings – maybe even a football club. And, until recently, Berggruen did own such toys, including plenty of art (a passion instilled by his father, Heinz, a renowned German Jewish art dealer who fled the Nazis and later became a friend of Pablo Picasso). But a few years ago, he apparently tired of what billions can buy. So he gave his art to museums, on long-term loans, sold his homes in New York and Florida along with most of his possessions. Except, that is, for a jet that now spirits him around the world, a “homeless billionaire” moving from hotel to hotel – or so the urban legend goes.
Berggruen (for it is he) springs to his feet, up to a normal height, and we are quietly ushered to the only free table in his current temporary “home”, in an annexe full of tapestries, cushions and mosaics. It is quite different from the austere sea of white marble found in the Carlyle’s main restaurant and feels like a slightly whimsical, magical place. Is it really true, I ask, that you don’t live anywhere.

“That’s the truth,” he replies, in an accent that is not entirely French or American or German (German is his family’s first language). “I spend time in London, New York, California and in, let us say, ‘standard’ places and much less standard places.” These, it transpires, include destinations ranging from Japan to the Congo.
So where does he keep his clothes? Today he is decked out in an understated but clearly expensive dark blazer and open-necked shirt. “Luckily, as a man you don’t need much,” he says, pointedly eyeing my dress. “I have very few possessions ... a few papers, a couple of books, and a few shirts, jackets, sweaters. It fits in a little thing, in a paper bag, so it’s very easy.”
My mind boggles; I cannot conceive of a 21st-century billionaire nomad carting his possessions about in a paper bag. Even on a private jet. “You seem very stern ... very disturbed by this,” he observes, searching my face with intense blue-grey eyes. “You are funny.”
I’m the funny one, I wonder indignantly; his Teutonic style of delivery is such that I cannot tell whether he is jesting, needling, or flirting.
“I don’t recommend this lifestyle for others,” he continues, explaining that he first started to turn “nomadic” 10 years ago. “I have always spent a lot of time in hotels, so it started to seem easier to do this, I feel happier. I am not that attached to material things. And the good thing is I can make choices.
“Now, si prego!” He summons a waiter, with the air of a man who always gets what he chooses. “The lady is going to have a lobster salad, right? Can I have a salade niçoise please, no anchovies. And the sauce, not the garlic sauce, you have a horrible garlic sauce. There is one sauce that is excellent but it’s not the garlic one. Thank you! Now, back to you ... ”
I suggest wine but it is summarily rejected: “I don’t drink, I don’t indulge. Quite sad. Boring.” We both order water and double espressos instead. He has just arrived from California and confesses to being “a little jet-lagged”.
Berggruen’s unusual approach to life began early. Born in 1961, with one brother and two half-sisters, he enjoyed a privileged childhood, courtesy of his father’s art business, and went to school in Paris, where he became a wildly leftwing teenager. “I wouldn’t learn a word of English [at school] because that’s the language of imperialism,” he recalls. He later attended a Swiss boarding school, to broaden his experience, but was expelled for sedition.
In 1978, still a teenager, he moved to London and a year later attended New York University to study business. “I decided to reverse. I said, ‘OK, let’s learn about the real world and capitalism.’ The real world for me was a game and I wanted to work out how to function in it, to use it as a platform.”
In 1988, he co-founded Alpha Investment Management, a fund of hedge funds, with Julio Mario Santo Domingo Jr, the eldest son of a Colombian tycoon. They later sold it to Safra Bank for an undisclosed sum. He also created Berggruen Holdings, a private vehicle that buys stakes in companies around the world. Berggruen has never explained in detail the secret of his investment success. Indeed, when a Dutch magazine ran a profile a few years ago, he tried to buy all the copies and destroy them. “I wanted to be private,” he says. But these days Berggruen Holdings has a website, which says that the group holds real estate and long-term stakes in ventures ranging from GLG hedge fund to Karstadt and La Prisa and, more recently, the British Resolution insurance group. These, he says, have created his wealth. “My father helped me through school but everything else I did on my own.”
And, having conjured a fortune, he has now a second more ambitious goal: a bold initiative to change the way that western politics and government is conducted. A few years ago, he started attending university courses and became fascinated with the flaws in western government systems. “I have always been very interested in history, so I sat down with a group of intellectuals and wrote a utopian constitution.”
He also used $100m of his money to create a think-tank, the Berggruen Institute, which promotes fresh debate about politics and constitutional reform. Then, four months ago, he used $25m to launch a more specific campaign to “save” California, a place where he spends several months each year, usually living at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills.
The institute is now promoting radical fiscal measures to tackle the state’s ballooning debt burden and to implement longer-term structural reforms, under the rubric of the “Think Long Committee for California”. Berggruen has so much clout that his committee is now backed by a formidable array of political and business heavyweights, such as Condoleezza Rice, former US secretary of state, Eric Schmidt, chief executive of Google, and Gray Davis, former governor of California.
But why does he care so much about the Golden State? Until now his most notable contribution to the region has been to throw a star-studded party each year for the Oscars (where he is usually photographed with a bevy of beautiful stars; he does not have a long-term companion).
“California is the kind of place where change is possible,” he explains. “California is in trouble – but I think California is ready.” More specifically, the severity of the debt problem in California – which is almost comparable to that of Greece or Ireland – makes it a bellwether for the rest of the US but has also bred a sense of crisis and receptiveness to change. And, since California has a constitution that allows politicians to introduce new reforms through a popular vote, Berggruen plans to put his ideas directly to the electorate. “California is worth saving,” he insists.
Our food arrives but Berggruen barely notices. Earnestly, he explains that since his teenage years he has always wanted to write a better constitution for the modern world, drawing on the best traditions of both east and west. “I feel very strongly that the two things that make a country good or not are culture and government ... my utopian constitution combines western values of the individual with the excellence of government and ideal of harmony that exists more in the east ... The key issue is: how good are the structures of government, how good are they at delivering to citizens?” And now, he argues, this issue is doubly relevant given that so many western government institutions appear to be hopelessly paralysed and deficient.
But if you want to fix something, I say, why not start with Germany? “If I went to Germany and said, ‘Listen, I’ve got a bag of reforms for you,’ they would throw me out. They would say, ‘We’re Germans, we’re wonderful, we’re perfect,’ ” he says. “But here [in the US] there is a very different attitude. The system is broken, people realise it’s very broken. In California they’re all unhappy.”
So what model does he want instead? Singapore? “I think it’s probably the best-run country in the world. It probably is on the authoritarian side and it needs to loosen up a little bit,” he observes. “But the ideal system is not necessarily the most exciting system. Probably, on average, boring is good for the average person.”
That medicine is presumably not intended for him, I observe; after all, he would not park in “boring” Singapore for long. “I am a hypocrite,” he admits. “But I am not thinking of me but what is good for most.”
I laugh but, as I eat my lobster salad, I feel torn. Is it just a crazy fantasy to hope that a billionaire could solve California’s fiscal woes simply by sprinkling about some intellectual fairy dust? Perhaps. Yet his passion is mesmerising; this is a man who truly believes that he can conjure a new future. And having worked in the US for the past year, I agree with Berggruen’s criticism of the modern political system. I am also impressed that he wants to do more than just grumble.
So, I ask, is this going to be your legacy? He confesses that these days he gets “bored” making billions through business ventures. He plans to continue with his investments but wants to put more effort into politics and philosophy; one model, he concedes, is George Soros, the financier and philanthropist. Since Berggruen does not have any children, he also plans to give his money away to his political think-tank and other reform causes. He is considering creating a media empire to provide an alternative to Rupert Murdoch’s, and promote civil society.
“The biggest problem is time, not enough time to do everything and not enough time to be bored,” he complains. “My greatest luxury is boredom, but it never happens.”
I glance at my watch and say that I should get the cheque; his plate is barely touched but I have eaten most of my salad.
“You seem to be in a rush, I’m much more relaxed than you,” he chides.
I point out that his office had told me that my allotted time was one hour.
“No, you had an hour and a half,” he insists. “In six minutes, I go.” Being a global nomad might sound bohemian, but a team of earthly staff is clearly organising his diary with Teutonic precision.
I gesture for the cheque, and he grabs it. Equally firmly, I lunge. But he pulls it away. “I live here, this is my house,” he declares, laughing. “I pay.”
No, I argue, I have to pay. It’s the rules of the article.
“I know. But in this case, we’ve bypassed the rules.”
We sit frozen in a stand-off, staring at each other. Then he glances at the bill: “Hold on – oh my God, it’s very expensive!” he says. “That’s very embarrassing.” I glance too: it is, indeed, startlingly expensive; though my lobster salad tasted very pleasant, it was not so extraordinary.
“See, I must pay,” he says.
I wonder whether I dare make a huge scene – and then give up. Being a homeless billionaire, I reflect, can clearly be a very expensive business; especially if you camp in places such as the Carlyle. But as I leave the ornate restaurant, without the bill, I also feel oddly cheered.
If Berggruen displays as much stubborn determination in pushing his ideas as he did with this bill, then maybe – just maybe – they might actually fly. In any case, I would like to dream so: right now, the western world certainly needs political magic.

New York : Cantankerous To Old Metropolitan Criteria

This is a fantastic article about New York by NYU professor Tony Judth

I came to New York University in 1987 on a whim. The Thatcherite assault on British higher education was just beginning and even in Oxford the prospects were grim. N.Y.U. appealed to me: by no means a recent foundation — it was established in 1831 — it is nevertheless the junior of New York City’s great universities. Less of a “city on a hill,” it is more open to new directions: in contrast to the cloistered collegiate worlds of Oxbridge, it brazenly advertises itself as a “global” university at the heart of a world city.
But just what is a “world city”? Mexico City, at 18 million people, or São Paulo at near that, are unmanageable urban sprawls; they are not “world cities.” Conversely, Paris — whose central districts have never exceeded three million inhabitants — was the capital of the 19th century.
Is it a function of the number of visitors? In that case, Orlando, Fla., would be a great metropolis. Being the capital of a country guarantees nothing: think of Madrid or Washington (the Brasília of its time). It may not even be a matter of wealth: within the foreseeable future Shanghai (14 million people) will surely be among the richest places on earth; Singapore already is. Will they be “world cities”?
I have lived in four such cities. London was the commercial and financial center of the world from the defeat of Napoleon until the rise of Hitler; Paris, its perennial competitor, was an international cultural magnet from the building of Versailles through the death of Albert Camus. Vienna’s apogee was perhaps the shortest: its rise and fall coincided with the last years of the Hapsburg Empire, though in intensity it outshone them all. And then came New York.
It has been my mixed fortune to experience these cities at twilight. In their prime they were arrogant and self-assured. In decline, their minor virtues come into focus: people spend less time telling you how fortunate you are to be there. Even at the height of “Swinging London” there was something brittle about the city’s self-promotion, as though it knew this was but an Indian summer.
Today, the British capital is doubtless geographically central, its awful bling-bloated airport one of the world’s busiest. And the city can boast the best theater and a multicolored cosmopolitanism sadly lacking in years past. But it all rests precariously on an unsustainable heap of other peoples’ money: the capital of capital.
By the time I got to Paris, most people in the world had stopped speaking French (something the French have been slow to acknowledge). Who now would deliberately reconstruct their city — as the Romanians did in Bucharest in the late 19th century — to become “the Paris of the East,” complete with grand boulevards like the Calea Victoria? The French have a word for the disposition to look insecurely inward, to be preoccupied with self-interrogation: nombrilisme — “navel-gazing.” They have been doing it for over a century.
I arrived in New York just in time to experience the bittersweet taste of loss. In the arts the city led the world from 1945 through the 1970s. If you wanted to experience modern painting, music or dance, you came to the New York of Clement Greenberg, Leonard Bernstein and George Balanchine. Culture was more than an object of consumption: people thronged to New York to produce it too. Manhattan in those decades was the crossroads where original minds lingered — drawing others in their wake. Nothing else came close.
Jewish New York too is past its peak. Who now cares what Dissent or Commentary says to the world or each other? In 1979, Woody Allen could count on a wide audience for a joke about the two magazines merging and forming “Dissentary” (see “Annie Hall”). Today? A disproportionate amount of the energy invested in these and certain other small journals goes to the Israel question: perhaps the closest that Americans get to nombrilisme.

The intellectual gangs of New York have folded their knives and gone home to the suburbs — or else they fight it out in academic departments to the utter indifference of the rest of humanity. The same, of course, is true of the self-referential squabbles of the cultural elites of Russia or Argentina. But that is one reason neither Moscow nor Buenos Aires matters on the world stage. New York intellectuals once did, but most of them have gone the way of Viennese cafe society: they have become a parody of themselves, their institutions and controversies of predominantly local concern.
And yet, New York remains a world city. It is not the great American city — that will always be Chicago. New York sits at the edge: like Istanbul or Mumbai, it has a distinctive appeal that lies precisely in its cantankerous relationship to the metropolitan territory beyond. It looks outward, and is thus attractive to people who would not feel comfortable further inland. It has never been American in the way that Paris is French: New York has always been about something else as well.
Today I drop my cleaning off with Joseph the tailor and we exchange Yiddishisms and reminiscences (his) of Jewish Russia. Two blocks south I lunch at a place whose Florentine owner disdains credit cards and prepares the best Tuscan food in New York. In a hurry, I can opt instead for a falafel from the Israelis on the next block; I might do even better with the sizzling lamb from the Arab at the corner.
Fifty yards away are my barbers: Giuseppe, Franco and Salvatore, all from Sicily — their “English” echoing Chico Marx. They have been in Greenwich Village forever but never really settled: how should they? They shout at one another all day in Sicilian dialect, drowning out their main source of entertainment and information: a 24-hour Italian-language radio station. On my way home, I enjoy a mille-feuille from a surly Breton pâtissier who has put his daughter through the London School of Economics, one exquisite éclair at a time.
All this within two square blocks of my apartment — and I am neglecting the Sikh newsstand, the Hungarian bakery and the Greek diner (actually Albanian but we pretend otherwise). Three streets east and I have Little Hapsburgia: Ukrainian restaurant, Uniate church, Polish grocery and, of course, the long-established Jewish deli serving Eastern European staples under kosher labels. All that is missing is a Viennese cafe — for this, symptomatically, you must go uptown to the wealthy quarters of the city.
Such variety is doubtless available in London. But the cultures of contemporary London are balkanized by district and income — Canary Wharf, the financial hub, keeps its distance from the ethnic enclaves at the center. Contrast Wall Street, within easy walking distance of my neighborhood. As for Paris, it has its sequestered quarters where the grandchildren of Algerian guest workers rub shoulders with Senegalese street vendors, while Amsterdam has its Surinamese and Indonesian districts: but these are the backwash of empire, what Europeans now refer to as the “immigrant question.”
One must not romanticize. I am sure that most of my neighborhood traders and artisans have never met and would have little to say to one another: at night they return home to Queens or New Jersey. If I told Joseph and Sal they had the good fortune to live in a “world city,” they would probably snort. But they do — just as the barrow boys of early 20th-century Hoxton were citizens of the same cosmopolitan London that Keynes memorialized in “The Economic Consequences of the Peace,” even though they would have had no idea what he was talking about.
We are experiencing the decline of the American age. But how does national or imperial decay influence the lifecycle of a world city? Modern-day Berlin is a cultural metropolis on the make, despite being the capital of a medium-sized and rather self-absorbed nation. Meanwhile, Paris retained its allure for nearly two centuries after the onset of French national decline.
New York — a city more at home in the world than in its home country — may do better still. As a European, I feel more myself in New York than in the European Union’s semi-detached British satellite, and I have Brazilian and Arab friends here who share the sentiment.
To be sure, we all have our complaints. And while there is no other city where I could imagine living, there are many places that, for different purposes, I would rather be. But this too is a very New York sentiment. Chance made me an American, but I chose to be a New Yorker. I probably always was.

Tony Judth

ALS:A Bunch Of Muscles,Thinking !

Rolled on to the stage in an electric wheelchair,a blanket wrapped around his body so that all could be seen was his neck and head,to which breathing tube was attached like a bit of facial Tupperwave.

Allegoricly he says:"The last time anyone had seen me in public i'd been bouncing around the stage full of fitness and energy,now they saw this quadriplegic with plastic on his face."

A few weeks ago the English historian Tony Judt delivered a speech at his home in NYU .More than 1000 people turned up,and few left disappointed.

What they heard was classic Tony Judt :the lecture ,a plea for positive virtues of social democracy,was an erudite as might be from the autjor of Postwar ,his epic portrait of Europe since 1945,and as politically pointed as his contraversial writings on Middle East.

He was concerned about how his audience would react to the new-look him,and tried hard to make them feel at ease.It worked and at the end of the speech he received a standing ovation.

18 months ago Judt was,by his own description "a 61 year-old ,very healthy,very fit,very independent,travelling sports-playing guy".He had a slight shortness of breath walking up hills and found himself hitting the wrong keys when he typed,nothing more.

Then in September 2008 he was diagnosed with motor neuron disease,ALS(Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis),known as Lou Gehrig's disease after the legendary New York Yankees hitter who died in 1941.

ALS ravage Judt with astonishing speed.By December he had lost the use of his hands.By March he was in wheelchair .By May he was wearing the"the silly-looking facial tubing" as he puts it,because his diaphragm muscles were no longer strong enough to effect the bellows motion that induces breathing.

ALS is the most common form of progressive motor neuron disease.It 's a prime example of neurodegenerative disease and is arguably the most devastaing of the neurodegenerative disorders.

Cused by death of lower motor neurons (consisting of anterior horn cells in the spinal cord and their brainstem homologues innervating bulbar muscles)and upper or corticospinal,motor neurons.

Clinical manifestations of ALS are somewhat variable depending on the site of damaged neurons.With lower motor neuron dysfunction and early denervation,typically the first evidence of the disease is insidiously developing asymmetric weakness ,usually first evident distally in one limb.Recent development of cramping with volitional movements typically in the early hours of morning.Weakness is associated with progressive wasting and atrophy of muscles .

When the initial denervation involves bulbar rather than limb muscles onset is difficulty with chewing,swallowing and movements of the face and tongue.

Early involvement of respiratory muscles may lead to death before the disease is far advanced elsewhere.

Degeneration of the corticobulbar projections innervating brainstem rsults in dysarthria and exaggeration of the motor expressions of emotion.

It's characteristic of ALS that,regardless of wether the initial disease involves upper or lower motor neurons,both will eventually be implicated.

Even in the late stages of ALS sensory,bladder,blowel and cognitive functions are preserved.

Dementia is not a component of sporadic ALS.In some families ,ALS is co-inherited with frontotemporal dementia in some families..

ALS is relentlessly progressive ,leading to death from respiratory paralysis;the median survival is from 3-5 yeards .Several endemic foci of higher prevalence exist in the western Pacific.

The suddenness of the catastrophe in Judt's case would leave many people paralysed not just physically but emotionally.Judt's response was somehow different . He's embarked on a fascinating ,albeit involuntary,intellectual journey ;a forced march of the mind.

The product of this existential delving is a series of essays that Judt has written – or rather dictated – for the New York Review of Books (NYRB) that will be published over the next three months. One tackles his illness head on. In Night, reproduced here, Judt subjects his own deterioration to the same unsparing scrutiny as he would the Israel-Palestine conflict, say. Its absence of any self-pity makes for harrowing reading.

The other eight essays take us back in time to formative aspects of his childhood in England. He was born in 1948 to lower middle-class parents and spent six years living in Putney in south-west London – a location that forms the theme of one of the essays. In others he introduces us to Joe Craddock, his school German teacher, lamenting that Craddock's insistence on excellence ("Yer utterly useless!" he would shout at pupils) is unthinkable in today's pampering education system. He finds meaning in the melange of largely bad food he was served as a child and revels in his love affair with trains that is now deprived him by his immobile condition.

Taken together, the essays illuminate the many contradictions in Judt's make-up that give him such a distinctive voice. He is a Jew with no religion who has questioned the legitimacy of the state of Israel; a naturalised American citizen who is a consistent critic of overweening US power; a person of the left who subscribes to no leftist ideology.

He is, to use a phrase that Judt applied to Edward Said, a rootless cosmopolitan. "Today I'm regarded outside New York University as a looney tunes leftie self-hating Jewish communist; inside the university I'm regarded as a typical old-fashioned white male liberal elitist. I like that. I'm on the edge of both, it makes me feel comfortable."

His current intellectual preoccupation is with the role of the state in western societies – the subject matter of his NYU lecture. His thesis is that over the past 40 years, western democracies have forgotten the positive virtues of collective action. "What has gone catastrophically wrong in England and the States is that for 30 years we've lost the ability to talk about the state in positive terms," he says. "We've raised a generation or two of young people who don't think to ask, what can the state do that is good?"

At the end of the lecture he was struck by how many young people came up to him expressing amazement at ideas they had never heard before. "This is the second generation of people who can't imagine change except in their own lives, who have no sense of social collective public goods or services, who are just isolated individuals desperately striving to better themselves above everybody else."

Judt now intends, in the time he has left, to devote himself to writing a book to help young people think collectively again. "It could really have an impact if I get it right. Something that will get the next generation to see there is a way to think about politics that is not just the way we've been habituated to do it. I care about that and I think I can do it."

Judt is already working on the book, using the same memory technique that he deployed for his NYRB essays. During the night he builds in his mind a Chinese memory palace – or in his case a modest Swiss house – and into each of its rooms he imagines placing a paragraph or theme of the piece he is composing. The next day he recalls each room in sequence, unloading its contents by dictating it to his assistant.

Some people have tried to comfort him with the thought that such mental discipline renders Judt's condition bearable. How wrong they are. "There have been people who have said to me, 'Tony, you are so lucky. More than anyone you live the life of the mind. It could have been so much worse.'"

To which he replies: "Hello! Are you from Planet Zurg? This is one of the worst diseases on Earth. It is like being in a prison which is shrinking by six inches each day."

It is true that he has exceptional mental strength. Against that, there are torments that come with this disease. An intensely independent and proudly autonomous man, he can now never, not for a second, be left alone.

The overriding truth, he says, is that "this is just hell. Because there is no hope, no help, and you know what the ending is going to be, each day is going to be like the last day only maybe a little bit worse. Sisyphus-like, you are going to have to roll this bloody rock up the hill tomorrow in exactly the same way."

We've been talking now for more than an hour, and Judt asks his assistant to move his legs and arms into a new position. He lets out a faint groan of relief. Being motionless for so long, his body hurts; it also grows cold from lack of blood circulation, which explains the sweltering heat in the room.

His ALS has come upon him so swiftly that, under usual expectations, he would be dead within months. But the degeneration of his upper motor neurones, which control his head and voice, appears to be occurring very slowly, raising the hope – or is it fear? – that he may stay as he is for quite a while. Inevitably, though, he will lose all power of communication, bar the ability to wink.

So does he think of euthanasia, of putting an end to an existence that he calls "cumulatively intolerable"?

"There are times when I say to myself, this is so damn miserable I wish I was dead, in an objective sense of I wish I didn't have to get up this morning and do it all over again. I've thought about euthanasia a lot, not for tomorrow, but one has to plan for it because the likely trajectory is that you lose your capacity to express yourself long before you die.

"No one wants to live in a wheelchair unable to talk, only winking once for yes and twice for no. It's perfectly reasonable that there will come a point where the balance of judgment of life over death swings the other way." At that point, he says: "The biggest thing to take into account is not your own feelings but your family's."

All that lies ahead. For now though there is the daily rock to be rolled up the hill, the Swedish house to be filled with night-time compositions, the book to be completed. Tony Judt is in hell. But he's by no means yet defeated.

Reference : Guardian(Ed Pilkington),Harrison